


M Is For Mycroft [And His More Famous Sibling]

by mydogwatson



Series: A Baker Street Alphabet [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, M/M, Mycroft is good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 21:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1023513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Sherlock through the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	M Is For Mycroft [And His More Famous Sibling]

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I think Mycroft is horrid. Sometimes I think he tries his best. This story has the Mycroft I would like to think is the real one.

Big brother is watching.  
-George Orwell

 

1

He stood at the French doors, slowly smoothing the front of his new waistcoat as he watched the child playing outside on the endless green lawn. Well, he said ‘playing’. In truth, the seven-year-old was stretched out on his stomach in the grass, using a magnifying glass to study something. Probably an anthill. The glass was too large for his hand and he had undoubtedly taken it from the library again. If he were caught, punishment would follow. But his little brother was much more interested in the ants than he was in having pudding with his dinner. Dark curls stuck out from his head in unlikely directions.

Mycroft, feeling much older than his fourteen years, sighed deeply. “Sherlock will hate it,” he said finally, uselessly. “He will hate it so much.”

Their father was busy reading from a towering pile of papers. The work never stopped. “Time the boy learned that the entire world does not and will not revolve around him.”

Maybe it should, Mycroft did not say aloud. “He’s so little.”

There was a snort from the desk. “Little? With those legs?”

“Young,” Mycroft corrected. “He’s just so young.”

“Same age as you were.”

Did the man constantly miss the point deliberately? Any fool who knew Sherlock knew that he was different. Even at seven Mycroft had not possessed so much as a hint of a wild child inside him. Sherlock, on the other hand, was all wildness. A leggy, exuberant colt, which some people [Father] did not seem to find as endearing as Mycroft did.

“Yes, the same age,” Mycroft muttered. //And I hated it, despised every moment, until one day I fell into line. I was always going to fall in line, because that is the only way to take over. And I will take over.//

But he knew that Sherlock was different. Somehow more fragile.

As if Mycroft’s thoughts had drifted across the room, Father said, “Boarding school will toughen him up.”  
Now that was a thought. Mycroft knew all about tough boys. They were very often bullies. Especially in a boys’ school, no matter how exclusive the student body, it frequently seemed as if the world were divided into two parts: The Bullies and the Bullied. Mycroft had figured out his own way to walk that divide. Knowledge was the secret and he knew more than anyone else.

For a moment, he dwelt on the thought of a hardened Sherlock. It was not something he wanted to see, really. In part for Sherlock’s sake, but only in part. There was some small bit of Mycroft’s mind that did not really want to contemplate the notion of a toughened Sherlock. The word Chaos came to him. He imagined a grown and toughened Sherlock. The wrath of such a man could bring down empires.

Mycroft still did not turn to look at his father. “He’s so intelligent. The day school seems fine for now. Or if you really feel as if that is not adequate, why not consider a tutor?”

“No.”

“What does Mummy say?”

An impatient huff. “She said that whatever I decide is fine.”

She didn’t mean it, Mycroft knew that very well. He had never understood Mummy. A brilliant, powerful woman with only one weakness. Sadly, that weakness was not her younger son [Mycroft did not even consider the notion that it might be him]. No, the one force Amanda Holmes could not resist was her husband.

Outside, Sherlock had apparently finished his nature study for the moment. He stood, his long legs stretching out slowly. He looked up and saw Mycroft watching. A small hand gave an enthusiastic wave. For just a moment, Mycroft toyed with the notion of a little blackmail, all in a good cause, of course. //Let Sherlock stay home, stay happy, and I will keep quiet about your mistress.//

But he didn’t quite have the courage to do that sort of thing to the old man. Not yet, at any rate.

“Mycroft, you care too much,” Father said. “It is not an advantage.”

He wanted to argue that point, wanted to ask that if he couldn’t care so much about his baby brother, whom could he care about?  
Instead, Mycroft only sighed. He pushed open the door and stepped outside. The charms of the ants had given way to what appeared to be a game of pirates, as the toy sword slashed elegantly through the air.

Mycroft frowned. He was willing to wager that the new game was being shared with that foolish figment of Sherlock’s dramatic imagination. His make-believe friend. Something would have to be done about that before Sherlock went to boarding school. There was already more than enough about Sherlock that would attract the vicious attentions of his future schoolmates. There was no need to add one more peculiarity to the mix.

He could hear the peals of laughter rolling across the lawn as Sherlock vanquished the villains. 

 

2

Even acknowledging that Xmas at the Holmes manor had never been an especially pleasant experience [too many relatives, invariably disappointing gifts, and proof positive that the whole bloody clan was more than a little odd], this year’s festivities promised to be extraordinarily grim.

Everyone would respect the proprieties, of course, taking care not to mention that Mr. Holmes Senior was no longer in residence, but enjoying the holiday on a beach somewhere with his new young wife.

Mycroft did not care in the slightest about all of that. Had he cared, there never would have been an anonymous warning to his mother about the affair in the first place. It was his first real evidence that revenge really was best served cold, as the cliché went. Not that the attack on the old man would redeem him in Sherlock’s eyes, of course. All Mycroft wanted now was to see Sherlock. It had been months and the hints he had been able to decipher in the school reports he’d received were quite concerning.

And when he walked into Sherlock’s room, not waiting for an invitation he suspected would never be forthcoming, it seemed as if all of his fears had been justified.

The sixteen-year-old was stretched out on his bed, reading a massive volume of what appeared to be Greek philosophy. In Greek, naturally. His hair was a wild tangle of curls, his skin alabaster, his mouth twisted in disdain. And his eyes were glittering chips of ice.

Mycroft tried to ignore the pang that struck as he remembered a little boy who beamed whenever his older brother appeared. “Hello, Sherlock,” he said.

Sherlock lifted a brow in a way that was much too reminiscent of their father. “So I see it is true.”

“What’s that?”

“The civil service does require even their most minor minions to be reassuringly plump.”

“And a happy Xmas to you, as well, brother mine.”

Sherlock sneered.

“Mummy would like you to join the family in the front parlour before dinner.”

“Seems pointless, as I do not intend joining the family for dinner.”

“You cannot hide out here for the entire holiday.”

“I am not hiding out, as you say. I simply prefer my own company. It is much less tedious.”

Mycroft considered him. “And what will happen on the day your own company does begin to bore you?” he asked with real curiosity.

Sherlock actually seemed to consider the question before responding. “Oh, I have no doubt that if that day arrives I will be able to come up with something sufficiently entertaining.”

Those words rather terrified one very junior government minion.

Mycroft could pinpoint the day his brother began to hate him.

It was the first Parents’ Day at the boarding school. Since neither their father nor Mummy was available to attend [read: they could not be bothered to do so], Mycroft had taken it upon himself to show up.

He’d felt his heart sink a little when he first saw Sherlock enter the common room. A pale gawky boy with misery etched in every pore of his being. A fading bruise adorned one cheek. When he saw Mycroft, however, his face brightened and he launched himself at the other boy.  
“I hate it here,” Sherlock whispered into Mycroft’s coat. “I hate them all and they all hate me. They call me freak. Please, ‘Croft, take me home. Please.”

Mycroft felt something inside his chest crack.

He tried to explain, tried to tell him that it would get better, but the only response was the shutting down of Sherlock’s face. The shutting down of Sherlock. Their Father would be very proud. Mycroft only felt a little sick. He could not wait to get away.

Sherlock would not say good-bye to him. And although Mycroft tried to stay in touch, Sherlock never responded, and life got busy and the time passed.

And now here they were. He held a minor position in the British government and Sherlock was a brilliant and lonely boy who stared at his beloved brother as if at a stranger.

3

Sherlock was officially dead for almost a minute.

Mycroft could hardly bear to watch as the emergency workers struggled to get a heartbeat from the skeletal form lying on the floor of the dismal flat.

The tip of Mycroft’s brolly tapped the floor in a rapid staccato. It was the only visible sign of the stress he was feeling. The fear. The desperation.

When the tech signaled that Sherlock was alive again, Mycroft relaxed minutely as preparations began to transport him to the hospital.

The police detective [Lestrade? who’d found Sherlock just in time, it seemed] stepped closer. “He won’t survive another one of these,” he said.

“I know,” Mycroft replied. “I will be taking steps. He will be going into treatment. In a locked facility.”

“He has to want to stop.”

Mycroft eyed him. “I realise that. Which is where you come in.”

“Me?”

“I know that he has been…advising you on some difficult cases.”  
“Smart kid. Genius, really, when it comes to crime.” Lestrade rubbed his eyes wearily. “I think he loves it. Only thing he cares about, as far as I can tell.”

“Yes. So you will tell him that he has to get clean. Otherwise he will be barred from working with you.”

Lestrade grimaced and then nodded. “You’re right.” He turned to go, then paused. “Oh, I found this lying on the floor next to him.” He held out a wrinkled and filthy sheet of paper. “I can’t read a bloody word, but he might want it.”

Mycroft took the paper and looked at the first words. Dear Jawn. He felt a dreadful moistness in his eyes, blinked to dismiss it, then handed the paper back. “You give it to him. He will not want to see me.”

Then Mycroft went to the limo and returned to his office in Whitehall.

4

It was completely ridiculous, of course.

Why did the British government [in the singular] feel it was necessary or advisable to kidnap a wounded veteran off the street and bring him to an empty warehouse for interrogation?

Mycroft also had to wonder why he continued to concern himself with his brother’s life.

Sherlock was a grown man now. No longer the little boy with bright eyes, the sullen teenager, the dying addict. Sherlock now was essentially a force of nature, excelling at his chosen occupation, no matter how strange that occupation might be.

Yet still.

So here he was, engaged in a verbal duel with a short man who obviously liked cozy jumpers and who looked like he could make a very nice cup of tea when wanted.

Which led to one question: Why?

Why had Sherlock chosen this unlikely man with whom to share a flat?

But when he saw the steady hand, the unwavering gaze, and how Watson stood up to him, perhaps Mycroft began to understand. Watson was already so loyal to a man he barely knew. Loyal to a man everyone else [including Mycroft himself] had let down.

It was very curious.

5

The second time Sherlock and John were at Buckingham Palace everybody kept their pants [and trousers, etc.] on. John was beaming. Sherlock wasn’t, but he was polite.

Mycroft knew very well that his brother cared not at all about the knighthood he was finally accepting. The only reason it was being accepted was because he thought that John would be pleased. All Sherlock was really concerned about throughout the ceremony was making sure than John was not tiring himself. It was their first real outing since John’s release from the hospital after his nearly fatal accident. To the casual bystander, Sherlock appeared to be a cool observer of everything that was happening around him.

In truth, he was only watching John.

Mycroft knew that John did not grant much importance to such things as knighthoods either, although he did hold queen and country in high regard—especially this very elderly queen whom he revered. No, John was pleased only because he wanted the whole world to know and acknowledge that Sherlock Holmes, his husband, was a remarkable man.

Mycroft agreed with that, of course, which was nothing new. He had always thought that Sherlock was remarkable.

Perhaps never more so than now, however, watching as his brother displayed such tender regard for another person. He kept a light hold on John’s elbow as they chatted with the queen, who was still a fan of the blog.

Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. 

//The making of my brother, indeed.//

Mycroft could not remember the exact day he’d felt the burden of his care for Sherlock [a burden he had never once begrudged] lifted from his shoulders. Perhaps it was even that first night, during that ridiculous meeting in the warehouse. Or maybe it was when John never once lost faith in Sherlock, even after the great lie.

Of course, it might have been the day he watched these so very different men exchange rings and pledge their lives to one another.

Whenever. All that mattered was that Sherlock was safe now. And possibly even more importantly, Sherlock was happy. That was all Mycroft Holmes had ever wanted.

fini


End file.
